


In the Thriving Leaves of Summer

by classics_above_classics



Series: Alice Dorothy and Stories Set Elsewhere [13]
Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Genre: Dancing, Gen, Part Two, Revenge Plots, Searching for Lento, Vague Descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 11:11:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19355857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classics_above_classics/pseuds/classics_above_classics
Summary: Summer.(Lento is still not here.)





	In the Thriving Leaves of Summer

Lyric-Weaver lands soundlessly before a medium-sized clump of trees.

There is no humanity about their body, here, not even the trappings of pewter necklaces they’d begun to wear in a bid to pretend they could touch iron. But if they were human, they would have very quickly been lost. The forest they meet the eyes of would be sprawling somehow, despite its reasonable size from above and far away. They would be unable to see through the spells growing in it, unable to work past every single sprouting tree. They would be lost.

They are not lost now.

Lyric-Weaver makes their way through the forest with purpose, their blood and branches singing at the familiar high feel of being surrounded by Summer leaves. This is a place where the rules are not. They miss that.

They almost miss the human world, too. They miss the life of it, the deep, unyielding life, with a thousand possibilities and a thousand new things. They want to see more of it, once they’ve gotten rid of their disgusting target. They want to experience it, all protected from the iron, taught of new developments and spoken to about possible changes. They were there for barely any time, really. They’ll have to return soon.

The forest looms a little closer at that, curious and creeping. Lyric-Weaver laughs, just barely dodging the unwelcome brush of dandelion seeds against their skin. That is something to be saved for another day. For now, they have work to do.

The trail of dandelions they follow leads to a clearing. It is littered- no, _bursting_ with the popping yellow flowers. The colour is almost uniform in what light bleeds through the thick green foliage, a garden of flowers to be left undisturbed. They take care not to touch it. Instead, they reach forward, feeling for something else, for the first fall of a leaf from the trees.

Finally, after what seems like far too much time- _two hours, in the count of the human world, how slowly it all runs_ \- a single, barely-green leaf falls. It barely fits between their outstretched, unfurling branches, as small as it is.

Carefully, making sure not to drop it, the being that calls itself Lyric-Weaver points the leaf forward, and in a slow, sure movement, they turn it as one would turn a doorknob.

The air itself seems to shift, a brisk wind filling the little clearing. Not a single dandelion moves. Lyric-Weaver doesn’t either, facing the silent woods without so much as a breath.

“What is it that you wish to know?” the woods seem to say. Or perhaps it is the dandelions. There is no difference.

“I am searching for a human girl who tried to render me a servant. A girl who was from the University.” Lyric-Weaver speaks. It is a sure declaration, with the kind of honesty only a fair being can muster. They stare forward, not a leaf of them shifting, and around them the forest and the dandelions stare back.

“Do you ask me for this information?”

“If I was to do so, what would you ask of me?”

The forest is silent. Somehow, to Lyric-Weaver’s searching thoughts, it sounds like laughing.

“You are young still,” the dandelions seem to tease, one losing a seed to the wind. The seed brushes against the thin branches that make up Lyric-Weaver’s hands. They do not move- it would be impolite to do so. “Young enough to ask for help, even. You have not decided to stop asking yet.”

They don’t know what that means. Still, something in them bristles at the insinuation of- _of immaturity, of inexperience, of unshakeable, irrespectable youth_. “With all due respect, I am old enough.”

“Of course,” the trees concede, still with that almost mocking tone. “What is the name of the human you seek?”

“What are your terms?”

“I will tell you if she is within Summer, the information freely given. I will tell you if she is upon any blade of grass, touching any of our leaves, if she is standing within the reach of a single gust of wind. That is, if you dance with me.”

Lyric-Weaver considers it, sizes up the forest. They are not human enough to be fooled by its glamours. They are not young enough to be fooled by its glamours. The forest is stagnant, its roots deep in the earth. It eats easily any humans that it holds within it. It is fat, and well-fed, and weighed down by inactivity. It will not dance for long.

“How would you like to dance?” they ask.

“For one as young as you? Any dance will do.”

“Then I accept your terms.” Lyric-Weaver offers the fallen leaf once more, and the dandelion seeds blow out all at once to grip the other end. Slowly, surely, they rise to a tall human form, one alight with the white and yellow of those flowers. It does not quite match, with Lyric-Weaver’s inhumanity and the comparable size of their natural form, but it is certainly enough to dance.

“Would you like to start?”

“I would be happy to.”

It would be challenging, with human eyes, to describe a fey dance. One partner is sprawling, all summer-green leaves and thriving, new wood. Another is the forest itself. It would be a pain and a challenge to truly describe.

Placed within human terms, for human eyes and human understandings, it is a young teen and their portly, indulgent grandfather, one sparking with the bright fury of youth and the other speaking with the lofty certainty of age.

Every beat, every shift, is met with knowledge. Lyric-Weaver barely has time to breathe before there is another result of the search before them. The forest, the dandelions, the being before them- it searches the plains and trees of Summer at a seemingly breakneck speed. Blades of grass are found un-trodded on. Fallen leaves are found untouched. Burbling rivers are found un-waded in. Summer starts, for an infuriating moment, to feel empty.

With a building anger, Lyric-Weaver speeds up. The semblance of dandelions follows their pace easily.

The bright blue of the sky is empty. The rolling hills are found empty. Empty, empty, _empty_.

Hours- _a day_ \- a day passes in the human world before the search ends. Lyric-Weaver’s leaves are shaking, though whether from rage or fatigue they cannot tell. They are tired and unsatisfied and furious.

“She is not within Summer.”

“She is not within Summer,” the forest agrees, the dandelion semblance sagging a little in disappointment. “My apologies. I believed this would be enough.”

“Your apology is accepted. I know it isn’t your fault.” They bow politely, offering the leaf forward. The semblance takes it. In an instant, the seeds collapse back onto their flowers, the leaf crumbling into faintly green dust.

Seething, Lyric-Weaver turns away, making their way out of the forest.

How? How is the girl hiding? Have they missed something? Did she have something to hide herself? What sorts of protections could she possibly have brought that were enough to hide her? Was she simply somewhere else?

She has to have been.

With a scowl forming on the creeping vines of their face, Lyric-Weaver surges forward, raring to continue the search. There is much more ground to cover.

Especially in the lands of Autumn.


End file.
